Jowan's Fall
by White Phantom
Summary: The simple, misguided words that led Jowan to blood magic. One shot. Read and Review, please.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age._

_A/N: This is just a short prequel to the magi origins that I thought fit what happens._

...-...

"If you really want to escape, you have to use blood magic."

Jowan's eyes widened as he stared across the table at her, a few smudges of ink along his chin accenting his most recent ponderings into the arcane.

She sat back in her chair, her short hair falling into her face, despite her constant attempts to keep it behind her ears. Even as he watched her, waiting for her to break out into that mischievous grin of hers and tell him that, but of course she was joking, she returned his gaze, her hands clasped lightly in front of her on the table. The lone candle between them flickered lower as a warning clink of metal sounded from the hallway.

Jowan's gaze flitted toward the door to the study and then back to his childhood friend. She'd come to the mage tower after him, yet she'd always excelled at magic. Whereas the damnable other-worldly touch might run through his veins, it danced through her every fiber. Every breath she took seemed to gather magic from the world around her, drawing ever more power to her frail frame. It amazed Jowan that none of the templars had noticed it yet. But then, perhaps she was strong enough to make them blind toward her power?

"We'd get in trouble." His voice was barely a whisper. Was this why she was so apt at magic? Because even as young as she was, she'd already turned to the forbidden arts?

She shrugged. "We? I've no interest in it."

Jowan's brow came down, furrowing so deep that a single line about his nose was all that kept his eyebrows from kissing. "But you just said to be free—"

"I," she drew out the word, crossing her arms. For once she ignored the few sparse blonde strands that fell forward and tickled her nose. "Have no interest in slipping out of my shackles."

She had never been one to toy with false hopes or pretty words. The templars had murdered her mother in front of her eyes and had only brought her with them to the nearest Chantry to leave her there, an orphan given to the Maker's will. If she had understood enough to know why they had cut her mother down, she wouldn't have tried to help around the Chantry by using her talents to was the dishes. The revered mother had nearly died of fright when she saw the dish rag moving itself across the cracked and worn plates, whilst the little child beside them dutifully dried the scrubbed ones and set them in neat stacks, ready for their cupboards.

The templars had marched her to the tower that night. One had whispered that to be as knowledgeable as she was—she had done dishes, not woven a tempest, and it had puzzled her as to why they could not see the difference—she must have already succumbed to a demon. He had drawn his blade when, still not understanding the severity of her situation, she had made a few pebbles dance to entertain herself during their rest beside the road.

One of the others, however, had seen the truth of the matter. The woman they'd found her with, be it her real mother or someone who had claimed her when she'd sensed the child's magical aptitudes, had already begun to train her. The templar forced a smile as he brought his hands down over the tiny stones and asked her not to do such things. He'd told her of monsters that lurked just beyond the senses, who would be drawn to even her little pebble tricks.

"But mother said—"

_So long as you keep your heart true, they have no power. _

Her voice had been innocent and lilted, tears trembling near her eyelashes at the remembrance of her mother's final moments. Of the look she had given her and the way she had brought her fingers to her lips, a whisper of a 'shhh' escaping her throat before it was cleaved. She had let the templar think that her silence came from her loneliness rather than her mother's warning.

"Your mother was wrong about a good many things, child," had been the kinder templar's response.

She had learned quickly the duality of her confines. The templars watched over her, like hawks eager to see the faintest flicker of prey beneath their critical gazes. She learned to read the right books, to say the right things, to get the proper number of spells incorrect on her first try.

All of these paltry offerings of obedience and ineptitude left her freer than most any of the other mages around her. While the templar's eyes narrowed upon those who excelled without effort, she was free to listen to the coy whispers of magic, to learn on her own which voiceless promises were just and which were malice incarnate.

She cared little for where she was, so long as she could sleep, her dreams intertwined with the ethereal and the fade.

The boy who sat beside her had noticed, however. Jowan had seen the way she inspected scrolls when they were handed to her, the way she registered them easily. He'd seen the way she floundered on the ones she chose to inspect more closely, as though she were looking for harmless ways to botch the spells given to her to test her abilities.

Even if he was unaware, it had been an interest in her power that had drawn him to her, not that she minded. He could feel magic, but he could not hear its call. To be friends with someone who would never rise to be First Enchanter would further her claim of mediocrity.

Regardless of either of their initial intentions, their friendship had sprung up true. And that was why she couldn't lie to him. Her kind of magic was purer than any blood spells, but it would not keep a templar from cutting her down, though it might sustain her, if she ever found herself lost in the wilds. However, it was quite beyond her abilities to get far enough away for her magic to serve as a staple, and so she was content to stay in her cage. For truly, if she turned her heart to darkness, she would cease to hear the only world that had ever mattered to her.

Jowan finally scoffed and told her that blood magic would never be an answer. And it gladdened her heart. Perhaps she could coach him, using what little she remembered of the techniques her mother had taught her. Perhaps she could show him the freedom of their chains. It left her heart warm to think she might share her world with another.

She'd barely opened her mouth to offer when a hand had slapped down on their table and a templar ordered them out of the study for the night. As the two headed out into the hall, they paused as they caught a glimpse of a young girl introducing herself to the Revered Mother of the tower, giving only the name Lily.

Even as the young mage turned her attention toward their bedchambers, thinking of the fun she and Jowan might have, were they to share her mystical world, Jowan's gaze lingered on Lily's face, enraptured by her soft smile and the way the light played gently in her eyes.

When he finally turned to see his friend looking back at him, questioningly, a single thought had whispered itself in the back of his mind.

_Blood magic is the only way to be free._


End file.
